


snug as a glove

by stillmadaboutpetra



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Feminization, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Joyvember, Kink Discovery, Lingerie, geralt and yennefer help him feel comfortable, kind of, mostly stupid, the shipping is light. can be read platonic or pre-slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:55:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27607960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillmadaboutpetra/pseuds/stillmadaboutpetra
Summary: The first time Jaskier wears lingerie, his (ex)girlfriend laughs at him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 25
Kudos: 175





	snug as a glove

**Author's Note:**

> suuuuuuuuper quickk little fic for the yennskier discord <3 idunno here! Very low stakes

The first time Jaskier shimmies himself into a set of woman’s underthings, it’s at his then girlfriend’s house. Cortana de Stael is in the shower, singing off-key while her deep condition sets; the flat’s filling with the smell of coffee. And her sheer pink teddy from the night before (and this very same morning) is fluttering in the breeze of the open French windows. Jaskier snags it from the floor by the stretch of his naked foot and drags it beneath the duvet.

She laughs at him when she sees him in it, lounging in the bed, waiting for her. He laughs too, because he likes her laugh and it's much easier to pretend he’s wearing it in jest than to think it might encourage a gasp or some engineered titillation from her. That she might have thought: oh you pretty thing.

She still kisses him, and gives his nipples a twist through the pink lace. His shoulders strain the thin straps; the lacey ruffles cut across his chest. The hem, which had delicately skimmed her hips and made her cunt a shy thing he would reveal with a flip of fabric like a wedding veil, instead tickles his hairy bellybutton.

She leaves him for work, still wearing it, a second go round of the morning dismissed in favor of her getting to work on time. He keeps wearing it as he gets a mug of coffee and sits back in her bed once more, tucked amongst her blankets, gray-slant rooves spread out beyond the balcony.

The next time she leaves properly for work, he slips into her silk bath gown, a slinking thing he’d gotten her last year for Valentine’s day. Red, plunging, prone to slipping off her shoulders. It barely covers his ass. He takes coffee on the balcony, leaning into the railing, feeling the city briskly on his bare bits that hang in temptation between his naked thighs and which, from a certain angle if anyone chose to look up, might peek out to see hello good morning.

It doesn’t last. Not the near-naked coffee on the balcony after she’s gone, or her. She’s gone. She sighs and says “Jaskier,” in a tired away. The way they always do. He's worn out his welcome. He's taken up too much space. He wants to throw himself at her feet and shrink down small enough not to intrude, to be forgotten enough to be kept and allowed to stay. Cortana does it gently but efficiently, even as he hugs her, presses a kiss to the overturned heart of flesh at her sternum. She does not linger in the parting embrace. She does not linger.

What lingers instead are her ridiculous bloomers in his sock drawer. Costume things. Ruffled, off-white. They’d gone beneath some skirt. God, he can’t remember the night; a theme party. He throws them out then fishes them back guiltily, sitting them in his lap like a stolen treasure chest he doesn’t have the key to open.

Cortana had been amply fat, so the width of the fit gives around him. The bloomers indulge him, to an extent. The crotch, wretched thing, cut at the middle with the joining ends, wants to saw his cock in half longwise and bisect his balls with clinical surgery. But the hug around his ass pleases him when he cranes around in the bathroom mirror. So much so that when his roommate Geralt comes in, silent cat he is, Jaskier’s still ogling himself and shaking his hips to watch the ruffle flutter appealingly.

“Should I go?” is how Geralt greets the scene, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to offer his departure.

Jaskier screams and flings the door shut in his face. It’s not the soundest way to recover his dignity. No. Much better, he strips himself naked and storms back into the apartment, bloomers left skinned and abandoned on the bathroom floor.

Geralt politely holds up a box of cereal between them, blocking Jaskier’s modesty.

“It wasn’t-” Jaskier’s intended speech of denial is drowned at as Geralt crams a handful of dry cereal into his mouth. It’s something dreadful and whole grain with no sugar added; just hearing the flavourless crunching drains him of his vigor for life. He deflates. He would have put his hands into his pockets and sunken his shoulders into the picture of defeat if he weren’t stark naked and pocketless. “It was.”

Geralt chews and swallows, the gentleman, before he speaks: “Was what?”

“It was...what it looked like.”

They’ve been very good friends and roommates for two years now. Jaskier once held Geralt’s considerable amount of hair out of his face when he’d had the flu and been a stinking sick mess in the toilet. Geralt’s gone on toilet paper runs for him when a hot sauce eating competition left Jaskier blowing his butt to bits. And well---

“Remember that time Yen and I had sex on the couch?”

And that. Things of that.

Jaskier nods, flushing. “Which time?”

That poor fucking couch.

Geralt considers this. “The time she told you you could watch.”

He had. He had for most of it before he’d ran off to his room to wank and then hid from both of them until Yennefer had left the next morning and Geralt had left and then Jaskier had wanked again and it all became a giggling smiling memory that was never put into words.

“Yeah?”

Another dreadful smash of flax-coloured cereal goes into Geralt’s mouth. Unnerved, Jaskier offers him the milk carton from the fridge. Geralt grunts a thanks and drinks directly from it. Jaskier adds ‘mill’ to the grocery list, trying not to shake apart.

Geralt clears his throat of cardboard detritus and says, low and gentle, “do you remember what I was wearing?”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Jaskier stabs a little pen mark into the notepad. “Geralt, I was a bit busy looking at Yennefer’s tits and your cock. Not - not whatever you were wearing. Or not wearing. Were wearing? Why, what were you wearing?”

He seems to recall a fair bit of skin in that scenario. But even in the lust-addled reaches of his mind, he knows Geralt wasn’t wearing a pair of frilly woman’s things.

Geralt grunts and brushes his hands on his shirt to rid them of crumbs before walking past, casual as anything, to his bedroom. Jaskier hears him pull out the drawer of his dresser and the soft rumpling sound of fabric.Then shedding of clothes. Geralt’s belt hits the floor with the thud of heavy leather and a buckle.

Jaskier, increasingly aware of his nudity and the very alarming but not unpleasant shift of events, grabs the teatowel from the oven and holds it in front of his crotch. “Geralt, what are you doing?”

There’s a grunt of an answer. Truly elaboratory.

“Geralt,’ Jaskier whines after him, finally daring to creep towards the open bedroom door. “Are you decent?”

“Sure.” It’s a vague answer. Even Geralt doesn’t sound convinced of it. Regardless, Jaskier sticks his head around the doorframe, quite fine with whatever sight might greet him. Geralt is more than easy on the eyes.

He’s...wearing all black, a pair of knee-high socks and underwear and a tank top. But he turns to Jaskier and spreads his arms in a matter of fact ‘there, see’ way like the moment is significant.

“Are you attempting to placate me?” Jaskier asks, stepping further into the room, still holding a teatowel that says ‘wine mommy’ on it over his dick.

“Yes?” Geralt looks down at himself confused, then back at Jaskier. “Uhm. Actions speak louder than words.”

“Christ, are you consoling me for seeing me in a moment of, uhm, lascivious narcissistic idolatry?”

Geralt huffs and makes another gesture at himself. “You looked scared.”

Jaskier carefully bites his tongue but his voice still croaks. “What?”

“When you slammed the door in my face.”

“Oh.”

“It’s...okay,” Gerat says awkwardly. “To. Like. A thing.”

“O...kay…”

They stare at each other.

“So you….?” Jaskier looks at what Geralt’s wearing again. He squints. Geralt shifts his weight onto one foot, hip popping out; he twitches like he’s going to cross his arms, a ripple of movement flexing his ample and defined pectorals, before he spreads his arms once more in offering. Jaskier squints some more then, seeing something, slaps a hand to the wall just inside the door and snakes around until he turns on the light.

In the low light, it hadn’t been clear, but with the overhead now illuminating Geralt, it becomes suddenly very clear that the high-knee socks, underwear, and tight fitting muscle tank aren’t quite the gym-ready chic ensemble Jaskier thought Geralt had donned to indicate some sort of affinity for fashion to gentle Jaskier’s worries.

The fabric is instead fine mesh, silk and shiny and dark. Under the light, Geralt’s pale sculpted body nearly glows, a shimmery suggestion of movement highlighted by every faint shift of his body.

“Oh. huh.”

Geralt shrugs. It does wonders for his outfit. The outfit for him. The whole thing. Wonderful. “Yen picked it out. I don’t like frills - on me,” he amends awkwardly. “Looks weird on me. But. I like..this.” he looks down at himself shyly. “Sometimes, it’s good.”

“It’s good,” Jaskier repeats stupidly.

Geralt shrugs again, turning pink like a slowly boiling crab. “To look nice.”

“Yeah,” Jaskier croaks again and then, coughing, repeats, “Yeah.”

“So don’t look scared to like a thing.”

“I will say, darling, that I assume I’m hallucinating. I very much think I fell and bashed my head on the sink five minutes ago and this is a very vivid very particular dream.”

“Sure,” Geralt says again vaguely. He scratches at one of his feet with the other. Even his feet look sexy in a bit of fine mesh. Good god. Geralt has feet like a satyr. This is a crime. An illusion. Truly a mad fever dream.

“I’m gonna go,” Jaskier eventually decides. And before Geralt’s face can completely fall to the floor, he flicks the light switch on and off ten times, going “oOOooOOooOOo a ghost…..the ghost of friendship…..thank you…..oooo so spooky…” and then he runs off to the bathroom, grabs the bloomers, and divebombs into his own bed to have a good long think.

Three days later, after when they distinctly do not mention anything ever again and Jaskier pretends he’s grocery shopping every single night, he finally caves, sits down practically on top of Geralt on the couch, and rams his head into Geralt’s shoulder.

“Can your girlfriend take me shopping?”

Geralt pats him on the back. “Sure thing, buddy.”

Yennefer is, quite possibly, more unhinged than Jaskier is, and he used to think he was the pinnacle of functionally unhinged. She matches Geralt’s propensity for staring but not his favoritism towards stoicism. No, no. Yennefer will unleash herself at nearly anything and anyone. As long as you’re not the victim, it’s usually an amusing time. She’s the kind of person where just looking at her makes the music in the back of his head swell up for a grand moment. All the time. She terrifies him and he can’t get enough. She makes music in his head. It's a bit like being mad.

"No, not there, you nincompoop." She drags him away from a woman’s lingerie shop. “That won’t fit you.”

She doesn’t drop his hand even when he course corrects to follow her lead. Her grip is firm and soft. He slows down just to feel her tug him back into place.

It had been her voice, that night on the couch, saying, offering, telling him to _stay_ and _watch_.

He’s thinking about her slender hand in his, her slender hand holding Geralt’s cock, the flicker of the TV painting them in ghosts of blue. He holds her hand tighter and disappears with her into a men’s store that cannot reasonably sustain its business selling only bowties and ascots and moneyclips.

Back they go, cologne clouding the air, sage and whiskey noted candles burning in the low light - god where are they - and out past a velvet curtain into a whole different section of the store. Exposed brick, scanty mannequins, and a supremely tall man with tiny spectacles waiting for them. And espresso. God, where the hell were they, diagon alley?

“Hello, Yennefer,” the giraffe of a man greets. Even his face is tall. His whole body has been skewed towards the heavens. “Hello, darling,” he says to Jaskier.

“Hello,” Jaskier says back, accepting a tiny paper cup with an impressive gold crema atop it. It’s blistering black and hot and a small sip settles nerves he didn’t know he had.

Yennefer strains onto the tips of her toes to kiss the man’s narrow cheekbone. “Martine, I’m escorting my friend today. A shy thing, but I do hope he’s capable of complete sentences and language enough to guide your selections.”

“Hey,” Jaskier puffs, pinching her elbow. He’s never been called her friend before, and it mollifies him enough that that’s all the protest he gives at her reduction. Yennefer slits a dagger of a smile at him.

“Aw,” she pouts cutely at him and pats his cheek. “You’re taking after Geralt with your monosyllabism.”

“Hey,” he complains again. She hooks her arm through his and nudges him with her hip. Martine, from way up above where his head is on his shoulders, makes a thoughtful face.

“I’m Martine.”

“Uh, Jaskier,” Jaskier fumbles. “Nice to meet you. I haven’t a clue where I am. Sorry.”

Martine looks at Yennefer through narrow eyes. He doesn’t look disapproving, only suspiciously intrigued “Forming yourself a harem?”

Yennefer’s lips curl. “A well dressed one.” And then she gives Jaskier a prodding look. “Tell our friend what you’re looking for, Jaskier.”

Jaskier’s eyes swivel in his skull. There are mannequins to the right in body chains, mannequins to the left in slutty smoking gowns; collars hanging from the necks of busts. Garters on floating thighs.

He bites his lip and looks way up up up to Martine. He can feel his cheeks go as pink as a summer peach when he says: “Pretty.”

Martine is gently amused. “Oh, darling, I only have pretty things. Be more specific for me.”

Absurdly, he looks to Yennefer. She blinks a few times at him, put out, before she tsks her tongue. She looks him squarely in the eye and says “ruffles.”

He nods slightly.

“Lace.”

He nods again

She purses her lips and pulls back a little, looks him up and down assessingly. “Pink. Like his cheeks. For his pretty blue eyes and that terrible mouth of his. Stockings and a garter. A corset trimmed in….” she trails off, lifts an eyebrow.

“Feathers,” he says, mouth dry. She nods, beginning to smile.

“Dress him like a duke’s favorite theatre boy. Just the right side of garish. Tastefully obnoxious.”

He grips her slender hand, brings it to his mouth to kiss her knuckles, a hot stone in his chest cracked open and spilling molten pleasure to knit with the threadwork of his body. “Oh, you know me so well.”

She snorts but indulges him. Martine clicks his tongue and sizes Jaskier up and then the evening descends into a strange montage of feathers and fabric, of lace and lattice. He spends a paycheck on ready get-up that’s wrapped in layer after layer of lavender scented tissue paper and packed away in a velvety slick box.

It’s pretty. It’s pink. It’s...his.

They leave the strange shop after nearly two hours of adoration and consideration. Beneath the leg of his pant, a garter clings to him, a silky ruffle that flexes with each of his strides. In one hand, he swings an unlabeled shopping bag from it’s heavy cord. In the other hand, he clings to Yennefer who guides them along the rue, looking very pleased. She bought something as well, but he doesn’t know what.

They stop off to grab two bottles of prosecco, soba and seaweed salad and bring the haul home to Geralt who will commit just about any sin for a good noodle. Honestly, if there was ever an example of stomach to a man’s heart, it was Geralt.

Yennefer keeps her secret parcel by her side through dinner. Geralt only inquires so far as “go well?” before Jaskier unleashes on him his awe, his curiosity, his delight. Yennefer eats his portion of seaweed salad during his ravings and he doesn’t even mind.

Both Geralt and Yennefer look content at the end of dinner. Geralt’s giving him these long soft looks and has a faint smile on his lips that everytime Jaskier meets his eye, makes him beam at Geralt. Yennefer keeps reaching over and patting his knee or his hand or his shoulder. He feels obnoxious, and too big for the room, and hot under his skin, and even though that’s happening, and his head’s rushing and his hearts tripping all over itself - his friends (surely Yennefer is his friend now) keep making the world feel like it can handle him. Like it’s quite fine that he’s like this. He doesn’t even know. He’s dizzy with a strange giddiness.

He finally bursts apart. “God, can I try it on for you guys?”

Geralt tips his head, looks at Yen, smile growing a tiny bit. “Yeah, Jask.”

“Show off for us,” Yennefer encourages, giving him a push. They’d been waiting for him. Any way he wanted to go with this, they’d been waiting.

_Do you want to stay and watch?_

He can see them, from that night. And now they want to see him. This slip of himself.

He showers, too afraid to dirty even the lid of the box. He hears them open the second bottle of prosecco. Their chatter. Yennefer’s talking about an article or something. Geralt’s murmuring low through the walls. Jaskier’s holding himself together by gauze as a fit of arousal prickles through him at the sight of all that pretty and pink and soft and _his his his_ lays spread out in tissue paper across his bed.

The silk stockings make the air chill against him. His leg hair pricks the fabric, he feels it, but when he runs a hand down his leg, from thigh to toe, all he feels is the silk, the slide of himself. The panties, ones designed for an individual with a cock and balls, give him room to breathe mercifully, even if he’s chubbed up in them with anticipation. He rolls his hips to test the tightness, to see the pulse of cock, the eager shiver of his own blood dressed up in blush and pearl accent. The corset, he can’t fit very tight, and he fumbles the ties in the back but still manages to cinch it enough to draw a decent silhouette, an impression of a softer, sweeter Jaskier, trimmed in white feather that tickles him.

He erupts in goosebumps, a prickle he encourages by brushing the inside of his wrists back and forth along feathers and silk until he wants to scratch himself out of the boning to pull at his flesh in pleasured torment. He clips it to the lacy garter that panels at the sides and frames his bits tidily.

The process had felt like forever in his head, but now, out of items to don and fuss, it's all passed too quickly. He almost weeps, crumpling a handful of tissue in his hand before he smooths it out on the bed. It fits. It fits, and he’s not too big, and he can feel the fabric of it all press into his skin, kissing and greeting him, wearing him as snugly as he it.

There’s a knock at the door. He jumps, whisper soft in his stockings.

“Do you need help?” Yennefer asks through the barrier.

“No. No, I’ve got it.”

The floor creaks. “You can change your mind,” Geralt’s voice tells him.

“No.” Jaskier breathes deeply, feeling the pleasant restriction around his ribs. His back feels straight, and he tall and elegant. His cock feels positively immense between his legs. It’s never looked better. Well, it has, but mostly when it’s been inside of someone.

He opens the door, peering at them through the crack. Yennefer’s bright eyes greet him. He opens the door slowly, revealing himself like a stage light’s come up on the shape of him, the partition of hesitation gone.

“Pretty,” Geralt says immediately with a nod of his chiseled chin, and all the knots of Jaskier’s spine unravel. He darts into Geralt’s chest, wrapping him in a tight hug.

“Am I?”

Geralt pats his back. “Very pretty.”

Yennefer makes a thoughtful sound. “It’s missing something.”

Jaskier opens his eyes, turning his face out from Geralt’s muscley cleavage to see her holding up a small box.

She’s smiling behind it, not like a dagger at all. Or if her smile is a dagger, it’s an offering of one, hilt first for Jaskier to accept in peace.

“Give me your hands.”

He’s helpless to obey. He detaches from Geralt enough to offer himself, gods, himself, to her, hands ready to accept manacles or whippings or the sacrifice of his fingers. Instead, Yennefer turns his hand over, palm up, tickles his lifeline with her fingernails, and begins the faintly awkward process of fitting white gloves onto him. These too end at the cuff in feathers. And, best of all, they've some shape to them, so that the fingertips end in elongated points that make his whole hand look a bit more dashing. There’s no awkward bulging or knobbiness to the shape.

He stares wide-eyed when she lifts up his hands and kisses his knuckles, leaving the faintest smirch of red behind.

“It’ll wash out,” she promises, giving him a pat.

He doesn’t want it to. By the look on her face, he thinks she knows that.

"Thank you," he says, holding her hand. "For helping. For," he looks at Geralt too. "For not laughing."

"Jaskier," Yennefer says, "I have loads better reasons to laugh at you than this. You'll have to try harder."

And he supposes he just might. They might let him too. Try. Stay. Do more than watch.


End file.
